Being Human: In the City of Ghosts & Whispers
by Quixoticmasque
Summary: Book 1: There Goes the Neighborhood - Set in Savannah GA, a werewolf, a ghost, a vampire, and a reanimated amalgamation of corpses struggle to hold onto their humanity in the most haunted city in the US. Set in the same universe as the SYFY re-imagining of Being Human, featuring original characters and a unique story line that picks up two years after the events of season 4.
1. Book 1: There Goes the Neighborhood Ch1

Being Human: In the City of Ghosts and Whispers

Book 1: There Goes the Neighborhood

1

 _Everybody's got their demons, their skeletons in the closet, the monster that hides under their bed. Everybody does - how we cope with them is largely what makes us who we are. Kinda makes you wonder how the monsters feel - being tolerated - just barely, and never shown to anyone, for fear of embarrassment. Well what happens when the tables are turned? The monster is the one hiding on top of the bed, and now you're the one hiding in the closet. Best of luck to you, the demon says, and proceeds to take over and destroy everything you care about. The worst part is this - he's a part of you - the part you hide away, keep in the dark, and now that he's out, well, can you blame him?_

Jerrod wasn't the type of man who frequented the bar scene. In fact he didn't even drink, yet here he was, second night running, visiting the diviest of dive bars in Savannah. At least he had one thing going for him: he didn't look out of place - at six foot two, shaved head, well-kept beard, an earring in his ear, and an affection for Harley Davidsons and the accompanying biker gear, he certainly fit in well enough. The first bar he went to yesterday, he hadn't ordered anything, and earned the suspicions of the bartender, so now he would occasionally sip at a bottle of Pabst Blue Ribbon, gazing blankly across the counter, his eyes trained on a fixed point in the middle of the air in front of him, making use of his razor sharp peripheral vision and his highly enhanced sense of hearing to guide his observations. It was proving to be progressively more difficult to accomplish though, even though his metabolism allowed him to process the beer quickly enough to avoid even the slightest buzz, but the smell and taste of the beer, revoltingly overpowering to his keen nose had begun impairing his focus as the night drew on towards last call.

"So, how's about you and me go somewhere… more comfortable like," the man was completely shitfaced - Jerrod could have smelled the booze on him from across the bar even if he didn't have a bloodhound's nose. "After you close up, o' course." the man chuckled, hefting his half empty glass and proffering it to the bartender, a young lady who the man had mentioned earlier to the nearest half-plastered patron was "a little skinny for my taste, but that don't mean I wouldn't give her a go, if you know what I mean."

The bartender was a tall, pale, raven haired woman apparently in her early twenties. She possessed a late 70's punk rock sense of fashion reminiscent of Joan Jett and the Blackhearts. Her bearing was confident, her smile seductive, her short hair fell about her deep hazel eyes just so. But Jerrod wasn't here on a social call.

He eyed the clock - 2:09. It was time for Jerrod to make his move. He rose, downed the beer painfully, but careful not to show it, paid his tab, and headed for the bathroom, keeping his ears acutely trained on the conversation.

"Aww, sorry hon," she replied, maintaining a barkeep's heir of ambivalence to the repulsive offer, "last call was ten minutes ago - I filled you up then, remember?"

Jerrod's timing was well executed, for several moments later, he heard the young bartender lean in to whisper in the drunk's ear. "But why don't you come by the back door after I close up shop, and I'll show you the meaning of a good time.."

Sam's nostrils flared in revulsion at the smell of the man - stale beer, staler vomit, the ammonia smell of bathroom trips that had in drunken stupor missed the bowl. But she could hear his heartbeat; the pulsing of his jugular ringing out from his throat like an orchestra approaching crescendo cried out to her. She hadn't fed in what felt like forever, and despite being staunchly determined to not kill again, her thirst might just overtake her self-control. Ten minutes later, as she locked the back door of the bar, and turned to face the drunk, his fly already unzipped at the ready, the determination to remain non-lethal fell by the wayside, as her eyes clouded black, and her fangs revealed themselves. The boozer didn't even have time to scream, and she was upon him – he had drunk his fill – now it was her turn.

She prepared to sink her teeth in, the pounding of his pulse screaming in her ears, so loud she barely heard (and didn't at all sense) the wolf from the bar step from the shadows. Even with the drunk's throat inches away, even with her incredible agility, he had grabbed her, thrown her off the man and across the alleyway without missing a beat.

"Living without a heartbeat can't be much of a life at all, but even then, is this the way you want to do it?" he grabbed her prey, and shoved him out onto the sidewalk, from which he promptly ran screaming into the empty night. "Victim to victim, blood binge, starve yourself, and binge again - giving a damn only as long as your hunger will allow?"

"What do you know, dog breath?!" Sam snarled, baring her fangs. "You get one night a month, which you don't even remember, and the rest of the time, you're right as rain!"

He half smiled, shoulders sunk slightly in sad reflection. "Is that right."

They stood a moment, him in shadow, her half cast in the pale light of the gibbous moon and then she heard them - fast paced footsteps, advancing towards them at a rapid business-like pace.

She turned her head rapidly to glance across the entrance of the alley "Shit - it's the Ordo - I'm sure as hell not gonna be caught dead when they get here, unless you think you can–" by the time she looked back, he was gone. She followed suit, making a mental note to wonder how the hell he could be that strong so far from the full moon.

Sam shivered - it was overcast; a late night in mid-December. Not unbearably cold, as it was Savannah, Georgia, but the emptiness in her stomach, the weakness in her limbs and the less than subtle pounding ache in her head told her otherwise.

"Next comes the DT shakes and the skin crawling… fun" she muttered to herself.

The wind picked up the faint smell of industrial less-than-chic from the westerly part of the Savannah riverfront which was the factory district, adding a mild nausea to the rest of the anything but delightful sensations. She tugged at the collar of her hooded jean jacket, fumbling for the pull strings to tighten the hood.

"You sound as if you speak from experience." it was him again. She'd known he was there since early that afternoon, but there was really no telling how long he had been following her. This was the first thing he'd said all day, though his accusatory voice had been echoing in her head ever since the night before. She sighed, exhausted. She was only going to get weaker, so if there was a time to make a stand, it was now.

"What do you want already?!" she whirled around to face him, fangs bared. "First you scare off my meal at the bar last night, and now you follow me around like some sad werewolf puppy dog! Unless you want your insides to be outsides, I suggest you explain yourself, buddy!"

It was at this point that the aforementioned DT shakes set in, and her legs gave out. She collapsed, but managed to stay vertical by supporting herself against a telephone pole. In an instant, he was upon her.

'So this is how it ends,' she thought, closing her eyes, and collapsing fully into the dark embrace of unconsciousness.

She wasn't sure how long she had been out, but she woke to the feeling of strong arms supporting her upper body, and something lukewarm and metallic tasting trickling past her lips. Instinctively, she reached up and pressed the blood bag to her, drinking with desperation now.

"Sorry, I've heard the bagged stuff tastes terrible to you guys, but I figured you'd appreciate it more than mangy stray cat." He said, as she emptied the bag, and let it fall from her fingers. He helped her to her feet, and she wiped her face on the sleeve of her jacket, and stood, rocking slightly back and forth, waiting for her mind to uncloud.

"Feeling better?" he asked. The genuine tenderness in his voice, matched by the look of concern in his eyes when her eyes met his took her by surprise. She nodded dumbly, not knowing what to say.

His storm gray eyes gazed out into the dark distance, narrowing as he scanned for anyone who might intrude into the silence of their corner of the night. "We should move," he said, "west of MLK Boulevard and south of Anderson is wolf territory, and they won't take kindly to our intrusion."

The mention of werewolves snapped her out of her reverie. "What do you mean _our_ intrusion - what do you have to worry about?"

He smiled, gently - so different from the titanic presence that had thrown her off her prey the night before. "I doubt they'll appreciate me inviting you for a tour." and with that, he took off, running east on 36th street at breakneck speed.

She kept pace with him, though she could easily have outrun him - while a werewolf's power lies in their physical endurance and ability to withstand injury, a vampire's great advantage lies with their speed and strength - though for a werewolf, he moved with considerably more speed and strength than any she had ever encountered. When they crossed Jefferson Street, they slowed up.

"That was fun," he grinned, once they were out of potentially dangerous territory.

"All right, where the hell did you get bagged blood, and why did you save me?"

He shrugged. "A friend who owed me a favor works at Memorial University Hospital - I swung by there this morning and called the favor in just in case. I'm sorry I held out for so long - had I realized how bad off you'd gotten I would've given it to you sooner. As to why I helped you: I've seen a good deal of fighting in my life, and no fight is as dire as the one we face within ourselves. Between the last vestiges of our humanity and the urge to let the monster take control, it's a wonder we have any time for our day jobs."

Sam sighed, leaning against the face of an adjacent building. "You're not kidding Shakespeare… not as if I have a day job anymore anyway - I was due in at work about six hours ago."

"Which brings us to the reason I've been following you around. I'm looking to hire a bartender, and one of the particulars of the job is the capacity to keep secrets. I'm Jerrod, by the way - Jerrod Fenris."

"Samantha Cortez," she said, shaking his hand, "who better to keep a werewolf's secrets than a vampire bartender, huh? You sure you're right in the head?"


	2. Book 1: Ch2

2

They walked the rest of the way, Sam following Jerrod's lead as the sun warmed the eastern horizon to their right. Neither said much, for the evening's activities weighed heavily on both their minds.

Sometime after dawn, they arrived at their destination: an eight foot concrete wall surrounding the back courtyard of 803 Whitaker Street. A tall, brick-faced Victorian mansion dating back to the late 1800s, the house was idyllically macabre, each of the it's three stories possessed a degree of sinister beauty that harmonized perfectly with its fellows. The elevated half-wrap-around porch was complete with ornate terracotta pillars, which culminated in ten foot archways adorned with elaborate wrought iron grating. The floor of the porch was solid hardwood, long suffering, the boards were weatherworn and falling apart. Above that, balconies, stained glass windows, mosaic adornments, and chimney stacks in sufficient quantity to assume there was probably a fireplace for each room. With its large oak door with two slim window panels, complete with a heavy wrought iron door knocker, the house tugged at the all too human inclination for curiosity – _come,_ it said; the monster's lair on the inconspicuous street corner; _come in, we've been waiting for you…_

Jerrod unlocked the back gate, and swung the heavy wooden door outwards. Sam stood at the threshold, gazing in. The weeds and plant life were wild and overgrown. Littered junk and refuse, apparently cast over the large stone walls over the course of decades was scattered along the inside borders. Lawn chairs sat haphazardly, attempting, unconvincingly to make it a homey backyard atmosphere. Nevertheless, the house's majestic and slightly menacing presence permeated the back yard, mingled with the chaotic landscape to produce a mild chill of excitement at the back of her neck. This was going to be quite an adventure.

Jerrod stood behind her, waiting to lock up after them, but abruptly realized why she hadn't entered. "Where are my manners," he said, rather embarrassed at his shortsightedness – vampires cannot enter a home unless they are invited in. "You're welcome here. Come on in." he said with a smile.

"Well, it's got… character - I'll give it that much." Sam said, gazing around the courtyard.

Rather abruptly, she found her path blocked by an individual she hadn't seen a moment earlier. "It's a dump. Trust me when I tell you it didn't always look like this though. Oh, sweetheart, please - don't act like you've never seen a ghost before." the man chuckled, "especially not in this city, of all places." He was of medium height, well dressed, albeit in a fashion that was at least ninety years out of date, with short black hair, rich brown eyes and skin the color of burnished bronze.

After a moment, her surprise receded, and with it, the urge to inflict bodily harm on this disembodied individual. "I've seen my fair share of ghosts in Savannah, but I try not to be in the habit of walking through them – I'm told it's considered rude. I'm Sam."

"Scott Langdon." He offered her a well-manicured hand, which she did her best to shake even though it possessed no physical substance. "So has Jerrod told you we've also got a spare room available?"

"No, actually," she raised an inquiring eyebrow at Jerrod, who shrugged sheepishly.

"I figured I'd ease you into the idea – it's safe to say that a werewolf and a ghost make strange enough bedfellows as it is–"

"Roommates - not bedfellows," Scott interjected, "you know you're not my type." He turned back to Sam "well, let's reserve judgement on the second offer until the end of the tour, wouldn't you say, hon?"

Sam nodded, and Jerrod began leading the way down the narrow stone stairs to what appeared to be a cellar door.

"I've been renovating this place for almost a year now, so we're almost ready to open the doors to the public," he said. "Scott co-owned this place in the 1920s with our landlord's grandfather, and they ran a speak-easy out of the cellar during prohibition." He unlocked the wide metal door with the sliding panel for the bouncer to look through, "Scott has helped me get ahold of his considerable posthumous investments, and I've managed to do most of the work towards opening myself, but I estimate if I keep going it alone, I'll have the place up and running well after the funds run dry. It's a bit of a catch-22 – we need the speak-easy's income to continue living – and haunting here, but the renovations are going to bankrupt the project."

"Unless…" Scott put in,

"Unless I have an extra pair of hands to help me finish the work, and an additional income to help pay the rent." Jerrod finished. "I know it's a lot to consider, but, well, let me show you." He led them through the door into the cool darkness within. Closing the door behind them, he found the light switch with well-practiced ease, and as Sam cast her gaze around the speak-easy, she was already pretty sure of what her answer would be.

The interior was a cozy, if dimly lit space. A low ceiling of pressed tin was stained to a tarnished brass patina by nearly century old cigar-smoke residue. The walls were gothically adorned with ornate wrought iron torch sconces. There was a pool table, a sitting area with two couches, two armchairs, four booths, three two-person dining tables, two card tables and a round table with a corner booth which seated eight. The bar was a long white-veined black marble affair, with a bloodwood shelving unit behind. The far wall was black, the two side walls red velvet. A door to the right led to the commissary kitchen (Scott mentioned proudly that the distillery he had built during the 1920s was still functional, well hidden behind a faux wall at the back of the kitchen), to the left was the wine cellar. They toured the bar area, the restrooms (one of which was still under construction), and the kitchen, before entering the wine cellar. The passage was a narrow, claustrophobic space at first, which opened out into a wide six-sided room, filled on two of the six sides with wine racks. The remaining walls were a walk-in refrigerator/freezer, a refrigeration cabinet, and at center, a wide, dead bolted saferoom door.

"So I take it the scary door is for when you change?" Sam asked,

Jerrod nodded, before guiding her over to the refrigeration cabinet, "And this," he pressed in and down on the handle of the cabinet door, which triggered a hidden mechanism causing the entire unit to swing open to reveal a hidden staircase. "In addition to being a perfect storage center for your food supply, also leads upstairs."

After touring the many gorgeous rooms of 803 Whitaker Street, complete with fireplaces, California king-sized canopy beds, a grand piano in the parlor, spiral staircases and the like, they settled in the second floor living room to discuss the arrangement.

For a time, they sat in silence, each contemplating their part in the negotiations to come. Finally, Jerrod spoke up.

"Scott and I met two years ago on my first trip to Savannah. His life having been cut short, and mine directed by the movements of an uncontrollable beast once every thirty days, we decided to attempt to find a way to achieve a sense of normalcy."

"I've been haunting this house for close to eighty years," Scott continued, as Jerrod lapsed into contemplative silence, "and it occurred to me that it could be just that, and not just for the two of us – this is a big house, and with the speak easy below providing a source of income, it could become a sanctuary… for people like us."

Jerrod finished the thought, saying what was on all three of their minds. "A place for the monsters of this world to go, and just be human for a while." The idea of it all at once made her hopeful, excited, and apprehensive.

"So," Scott said, "What do you say?"

Sam looked down, apparently contemplating her shoes - the decision weighed heavy on her mind. It was everything she could possibly ask for. Why then was she so worried?

"Being a monster," she began, "I feel like I'm always waiting for the other shoe to drop, you know? Always looking over your shoulder for the angry mob with the torch and pitchforks…"

The moments ticked by for what felt like an eternity, but then she looked back up at them, and grinned. "Aw, what the hell – a chance to be human? I'm in."


	3. Book 1: Ch3

3

Gabriel had come full circle. After twenty years searching, he had hit a dead end, only to wind up back where he started. As the Greyhound bus pulled into the station in downtown Savannah, he let out a defeated sigh.

'Home, sweet home, ' he thought. It wasn't exactly untrue – he had spent the first five years of his life here, wide-eyed and wondering at the beauty of the city, and Savannah still held a special place in his heart.

He stepped off the bus, eyeing his reflection in its side view mirror. He knew what he saw wasn't the appearance he presented to others – nevertheless it disturbed him, and it had taken quite a long time and force of will to gaze at his reflection deliberately.

He was tall – at 6'8", almost abnormally so, and riddled with scars. His skin was the pale gray-yellow of jaundice. His hair, a shaggy dark blonde mane fell to his shoulders, each lock growing at a seemingly different pace from the others around it. One green eye and one blue peered out from under a heavy, badly scarred brow. Gabriel looked down at his hands – the one truly beautiful part of his body – they were the hands of an artist – all at once well-muscled as a sculptor's, but with the long and dexterous fingers of a master musician. He focused his mind, let it empty of the rage he felt at his own appearance, and exhaled a breath of tranquility. When he looked up again, the scars were gone, and his skin had taken on a reasonably human pallor. He saw now as those around him did. The bus pulled out, taking its mirror with it, and he set off, his long strides never showing the weariness of his soul.

Jerrod rose earlier than usual that particular morning in late February. He felt invigorated, and not solely due to that night being the night of the full moon. The last two months had been a time of exceptional progress on the Whitaker Street Speak-easy. The day before, he had received their liquor license, and their landlord, despite being both a recovering alcoholic and Unitarian minister had gotten the Savannah Historical Society to approve the reopening. Of course, he had a condition, and what was more, a condition Jerrod had not yet met – it was to serve food as well as alcohol. Jerrod had since acquired all necessary licenses to open. The only thing that remained was to find a cook worthy of the Speak-easy's more unique qualities.

"In other words, a cook who wouldn't balk or call the police at the sight of the refrigerator filled with bagged blood." Said Sam, as the three roommates contemplated this latest step in the process.

Jerrod nodded, "I'd do it myself – at the very least it'd get me out of working at the lumber mill, and I can definitely put together the menu and train somebody, but I just don't have the practiced skill to keep pace in a professional kitchen." he looked to Sam, hopefully.

"Oh, no – sorry Jerr – I can make a mean mixed drink, but I can't boil water without burning it."

So now, as was the way he did most of his best thinking, Jerrod walked the streets of the historic district, allowing his steps to be guided by the sights, sounds and smells of the city; some pleasant, some rather revolting, all quintessentially at home in Savannah. The afternoon was overcast and gray, and though the rain held off in the part of the city he was in (Savannah weather is notoriously unpredictable and diverse, depending on where you happen to be at a given moment), the cool dampness of the air gave way to areas of fairly thin, misty fog, giving apparent credence to the drama of the east coast's "most haunted city."

At some length, he found himself following Lincoln Street, heading north towards the riverfront. He was aware that his path would intersect Colonial Park Cemetery, but oddly, when he arrived at its gates, he found his vision completely obscured by an unnaturally thick fog which encompassed the central region of the cemetery. Denied his vision, Jerrod was far from blinded, and in the distance, he could hear the sounds of struggle; smell the keenly metallic odor of freshly spilled blood. With steely determination in his eyes, Jerrod slipped into the fog.

Gabriel grunted painfully as the vampire drove a devastating punch to his gut. The punch would likely have left a hole in any average human, and at the very least knocked a werewolf or another vampire off their feet. Gabe skidded back a few inches, but stayed upright, and held his ground.

"By decree of the Council of Ordo Noctis, you are to surrender yourself, abomination!" said one of the vampire's compatriots. Gabe knew better than to surrender to the Ordo Noctis – the supernatural governing body of Savannah. He had fled Savannah fifteen years prior due to their lofty "decrees". It was because of them that his creator had been forced to abandon him and go into exile, and if they had their way, he'd be dead and buried all over again.

"What crime have I committed then, that I must surrender?"

"the fact that you had been… _assembled_ here was enough to condemn you, but now you return to our city! Taint it's streets with your heinous presence… your death will be a slow and painful affair."

Jerrod was thankful there wasn't another wolf with them, but then, the Ordo Noctis was extremely careful with its wolves. Due to the volatility of a wolf's emotional state that close to the full moon, the Ordo had decreed that they be under lock and key not only the evening of, but the day leading up to it. Of course, most wolves just stayed home that day, and those that were emergency responders were excused, but Jerrod wasn't exactly on good terms with the fascist supernatural bureaucracy.

Another wolf might have sensed Jerrod's heartbeat, but the fog masked his scent from the two vampires, and the ghost creating the fog was too preoccupied with his litany on abomination and heresy to notice him. He moved in stealthily, as close as he dared go before he was ready to make his move, withdrawing from a well concealed pocket in his leather jacket an iron pry bar, perhaps a foot in length. 'I'll have to move quickly,' he thought, 'the ghost can't be allowed to see me, or I'll have the Ordo on my back for sure. And I can't give either vamp the chance to flee…' Timing, he knew, would be everything.

Gabriel sidestepped another punch from the vampire who had struck him, only to realize that he hadn't intended for the punch to land at all. Within a fraction of an instant, the vampire had him in a headlock as the second one stepped up, a rather wicked looking knife in hand.

"You should be flattered, abomination. This knife was made especially for you." said the ghost, apparently the spokesman for the ordo among the three – the other two were clearly there for muscle alone. "Note that one edge is silver and the other iron, and it is coated in a mixture of aconite, Dead Sea salt and water from a fast flowing stream – as you can see, we've spared no expense in ensuring your destruction."

Gabriel let out a pained growl, as the tip of the knife was drawn along the skin of his upper right arm. The wound burned terribly, and as the pain spread up his arm, he was forced to drop his glamour to resist crying out in agony. He watched as the vampire drew the knife along to the first of many stitching scars. He braced himself for pain he knew he would not be able to hold up against, when he suddenly noticed another figure slip up behind the ghost.

The ghost, who was watching his agony rather intently, noticed the change in the direction of Gabriel's gaze, and began to turn, but not before a hand wielding what it was safe to assume was something iron ripped through his midsection, dispersing him. At the sound of the ghost's cry, the vampire with the knife whirled round far too late, and found the pointed end of the pry bar imbedded in his chest. For an infinitely long fraction of a second, the wolf who had come to his rescue looked him up and down. This was the first time since he had learned to conceal his true appearance that someone had seen Gabriel as he was. Then the impaled vampire dissipated into dust, the wolf nodded as if to say _don't worry – I am not afraid,_ and stepped to one side, proffering the improvised stake. In one swift and terrible motion, Gabe grabbed his captor, whirled him over his shoulder, and planted him squarely on the upturned metal rod.

As the second vampire became dust and was cast to the wind, and the fog began to break, Gabriel felt his rage subside, and as the emptiness that is the calm after the storm entered him, he turned gratefully to his rescuer.

"So," said Jerrod, snapping in two under his boot the wicked knife they had used on the stranger, "this may come as an extremely odd question, but, any chance you're a decent cook?"


End file.
